A bit of your heart that walked with me through the dark
by MomotsukiNezumi
Summary: The companion piece/second part of "The empty space that was your place beside me". Sherlock is back, but he didn't come back alone. The newest resident to 221B is small, curious, and a little prickly, but sometimes it's the small things that play the biggest parts.


**This is written as the companion piece/second part of my BBC Sherlock fic "The empty space that was your place beside me", showing Sherlock's return from his point of view, with a few flashbacks and references to his time "dead" while dismantling Moriarty's network. Oh, and Sherlock didn't come back entirely alone from his time abroad...of course, considering his travel companion can fit in his coat pocket it's not surprising.**

**OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: I don't own BBC Sherlock, or J.R.R. Tolkien's ingenious _Lord of the_ Rings, or his lovely Hobbits named Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins_. _I do, however, own my ideas and my OCs, including the adorable little bugger in this that made a nest out of Sherlock's blue scarf. Also, I hereby claim the right to say that "a nanny hedgehog" is entirely my idea (although I don't know if they can have tea, but for the sake of this one, as he's special, the herbal ones are okay). **

* * *

When he came to, there was melted snow in the bed, the covers much too tight around him, and there was a distinct draft coming in from under the door. Carefully, slowly, he opened his eyes a crack, searching through the sliver of vision that he'd allowed himself to do a quick check of his surroundings. Immediately, his Mind Palace hummed and sang as he began to fully awaken, safety scenarios coming to the forefront of his mindscape as he went through the possible alerts that would have roused him. As he thought, his senses flickered to life, scanning the environment for any and all available information. It's only been a few seconds, but he knew without a doubt that this place is not one of the cheap hotel rooms he's become reluctantly used to over the past years.

A faint sniff to test the air. _Sterile, but dusty. Faint scent of lemon soap, likely cleaning agent used several days ago. Bed smells of cotton, sheets laundered between one and one and a half weeks ago, pillow wet, likely due to either unconsciously-released saliva during sleep, or melted snow._

He took a moment to steady himself, before risking tilting his head to the side, allowing one ear to face upwards, filtering in sounds.

_No gunshots, no sound of footsteps. Conclusion: there is an approximately 90% chance that I am alone here. Sound of cars outside, so this is likely a hotel room or flat on the upper levels. _

There is no aftertaste of bitter flavor to suggest poison, no hint of strange chemicals or knockout solutions, and after a moment of swilling around the saliva in his mouth to ensure he has not ingested anything else worrisome, he took a breath and opened his eyes fully.

What he sees almost chokes him: the quiet, military-clean room, the Spartan walls, the house slippers by the door, a half-open dresser with what is unmistakably one of _his _jumpers peeking out, almost as if in welcome.

Every sense goes into overdrive, his mind whirring madly as he tried desperately to compound a functioning hypothesis as to why he's _here_, of all places. A trick, perhaps? A drug-induced hallucination? Did he ingest something dangerous the night before? Or is he finally worn down enough that he's lost all rational thought, and his mind is conjuring up ghosts of his old life?

But then the bed shakes, tremors rippling across the worn fabric of the covers as he turned around, and then he stopped, and stared, because there is no other response he can give. How in the world did he miss the fact that he was not _alone_?

John Watson is curled underneath the covers, that familiar head of sandy-blonde hair peeping out from the mass of old blankets and sheets, fingers reaching up to stretch out and curl around Sherlock's too-thin wrist, the blue yarn dragging across two pairs of skin as one, two, then three moments pass, and then Sherlock managed to regain his voice and speak.

Or, at least_ try_. It appears that in this instance, his words have failed him, because the only thing he can think to say is "John".

_Such a simple thing, yet those four letters hold more meaning_, he thought, _than all the words that the human tongue can conceive to express._

He wondered, somewhere in the depths of his Mind Palace, if there is enough time left in the world for him to try and make sense of this, of the sentiment bubbling up from within so strong he wonders if John can read it in his face, his eyes, the way his hands have taken hold of the blue yarn and are twisting and tangling it across their fingers in a half-hearted attempt to distract himself.

It's strange, he thought, that this is such a surreal situation: he felt painfully out of depth in these moments, pulling out every thought he'd concocted on how their reunion would go, every little facet of the hypothetical scenarios he'd fashioned in his mind's eye during the long, dull, aching nights, far from hearth and home.

_He was a soldier, used to physical combat. Perhaps he'd punch me. If incredibly angry, he won't spare my teeth, or my nose. Perhaps I should keep a medical kit in my coat pocket if he kicks me out afterwards to try and regain his thoughts on my return in peace. _

_He was always upset when I did something important without him when he could have been there, so when I tell him about what I had to do he'll yell himself hoarse about why I should have brought him along. _

_Attempts at placation wouldn't work, he's too stubborn. If I try and appease him with good behavior he'll probably think I've become ill, possibly feverish, and then none of my reconciliation attempts will be taken seriously._

He felt unusually awkward, and yet he felt more comfortable, more at ease, at _home_, than he has been in a long, long time.

The logic in this is simple to understand: John is here.

John, who made everything that much better just by being there. John, the person who he'd missed the most during the lost years between them, that damnable crack that had widened and stretched a chasm of bygone days and cold nights to separate them.

Oh, how he'd _missed _his best friend. His only friend. His dear, loyal blogger, the doctor who could patch up everyone with an ache or a hurt, save the one Sherlock had caused, the hurt that he could see in those moments the night before. _But_, he reflects, _if I caused this pain, surely that means that I am also the means to cure it. _

Sherlock is not good at fixing people, he is good at _breaking _people, he knows this from experience. In his youth, it was with the childish curiosity and unthinking callousness that infects a great many young children that he has spoken aloud secrets, lies, painful truths and private thoughts of others, not thinking of their feelings on the matter because he _could _observe them, and he _would, _it was the thing he did best. The general reaction was often of disbelief, or outrage, and often a round or two of crying to go along with it from the other person, sometimes insults flung like dirt clods at him, but children were still children, and unlike Sherlock, many of them became enamored with other things, forgetting the strange boy with the all-seeing eyes, and Sherlock wondered if there were any other people that would ever understand him, before the idea of contemplating "friendship" becomes impossible to link to himself and he deletes it because _he doesn't need friends, doesn't have them_ and deleting it is easier than living with the knowledge that no one else understands, maybe never will.

As he grew older, the deductions got bigger, grander, more intricate, and he's never quite sure when people began to really see such observations as intrusions, as _freakish_, because when he was quite small they all thought it was a parlor trick for such a bright child, and it's only when he grows that people begin to look uneasy, unsettled, _worried _because he saw the world as the biggest archive of information available, a world of locked doors and secrets, and he was the only one with the key to unlock it all. The key that had given him his fair share of schoolyard fights, of taunts and teasing and sharply-spoken insults from those who think they can judge him, when all he does is observe. So Sherlock turned his attentions to the dead, finding them far more interesting and far less rude, until he meets someone just as fascinating, just as not-boring, even if a little bit run-down, and just as _alive. _

Sherlock does not know how to fix John, because that would imply that John is broken, and he knows that while the good doctor is many things, he is not broken.

Battered, yes, worn down by years of pain and wondering and too-quiet existence and a distinct lack of _good_, but not broken, never broken. At least, not entirely broken, because if he looks closely enough at his friend he can see the things that weren't there when he was present. He observes the worry lines, the greying hair, the added weight, the worn expression on the face he'd memorized since day one. He observes, and then looks further, fancying that he could see hairline cracks appearing for a split second, the kind of cracks that aren't noticeable until they get too deep and then it's too late to stop the whole piece from shattering irreparably. He is treading on thin ice here, that much is clear, and if he isn't careful he'll pull them both under.

But it's only for a moment, and then it was gone, and then he blinked and wondered if he'd seen the cracks at all. But he knew they were there, all the same, and in that moment, he decided not to fix John, but to heal him. The process, he knows, is already starting by his coming back home (and oh, what a fantastic word that is, _home_, because he hasn't had the chance to use it properly in ages and it feels warm, safe, familiar in a way that not even time apart can ruin. It feels like John, and the fresh puzzles of an interesting murder, and the buzz of a fresh batch of nicotine patches, and he savors the feeling. _Home_, he reflects, has the same amount of letters as _John_, and this fact is soothing, amusing, interesting all at once.). But he'll need to do better, he knows, because for the past years John has been without him, and too much or too little of Sherlock will be _not good. _It's a bit like combining chemicals, he thinks, because he knows that if the amount given is inadequate for what needs to be done, the whole thing will become a disaster.

John is not an experiment, Sherlock knows this, but all the same, he'll treat healing John with the same energy and care. It may not be much in compensation for their time apart, but perhaps it will help them both. Sherlock always will need something to focus on, and if it's John, there is quite a lot of catch-up time to devote such attentions to.

But he'll need help. Sherlock admitted, albeit inwardly, and with a hint of sulking thrown in for good measure, that he is not a "people person". He doesn't like to consider other people's feelings, because feelings are sentiment, and that's something that he's gone quite a lot of his life without. Expressions of sentiment are, after all, often nauseating if overdone, and he's never wanted to display a sappy, overemotional declaration of affection to others, it's not how his hard drive is programmed and people don't expect him to reciprocate emotional displays, anyone who has spent more than a few moments in his company know he doesn't _do, _to put it crudely, "touchy-feely stuff."

However, he does know someone who _is _a "people person"...or rather, a "people pet", one who just might be able to bridge the distance that has developed over the lost years after all. Someone who managed to keep him together during the time away. Perhaps, in this case, helping John will not be so different.

The epiphany is brief, a mere passing thought, but it's all that's needed to get him out of bed.

Sherlock pulled himself out of the cocoon of covers and sheet, the warmth of his friend's hands drawn away as he detangled himself from the fabric, and then he was up and heading across the floor, flinging the door open with a _bang _as he hurried down the stairs, inwardly relishing the _bang, bang, bang _as bare feet hit each old step on the way down, though small stabs of pain make their way across the soles as the wood impacts with aching bruises from weeks before. Briefly, a thought of Mrs. Hudson waking up from all the racket he's making crossed his thoughts, but he knew that he couldn't avoid her forever, and given what he knows of her habits and schedule, she wouldn't leave her flat for another hour or so, even with all the noise, it's too early for her to leave her bed, and after such a long time living with Sherlock she'd learned more than enough about his wall-shooting and violin-playing at ungodly hours to have both their flats get thicker walls.

John is heading downstairs after him (_two steps at a time, and quite worried, too, _his thoughts supply immediately). He's shouting something, but he can't make out exactly what it is, but that's alright because within half a minute he'd gotten to the door, lock picked the keyhole to their flat and made it across the foyer and then to the mantelpiece. The skull is still there, just as he always is, and Sherlock takes a brief moment to enjoy the sight of his old friend as he took a deep breath, taking in the scent of 221B and all it entails.

Though there is no longer a scent of formaldehyde, chemicals burning, dead body parts fermenting or tanning, or even the overpowering smell of lemon soap that John always insisted on scouring the lab equipment and kitchen utensils with, he can still find, if he concentrated enough, the faint scent of coffee, of tea, of old papers and ink and the musty, old smell that only came from his violin case when he'd first gotten it (Sherlock knew this to mean that the violin has not been played since he was last here, instead left in the quiet that had settled over everything like so much dust. The thought is disheartening, he has missed playing his music.). The main smell, though, is John, the smell of warm jumpers and hot tea and medicine and the ink on crossword puzzles and that sharp, sterile tint that comes from working in hospitals. Sherlock breathed it in, filling his lungs with the air of _home, _and sighed deeply, the ever-present buzzing of his hard drive for stimulation calmed to a quieter background noise, a hum of uncommon tranquility in his Mind Palace.

Thoughts thus settled for the moment, equilibrium re-established, he resumed his mission. He may have slept upstairs last night, but that doesn't mean his traveling companion did. Turning to the armchair where he'd left him, Sherlock approached the worn leather, kneeling down on the floor and watching as the tiny form atop the Union Jack pillow taken from the sofa coos and squeaks in the embrace of sleep, quills flattened slightly and little toes scrabbling at the pillow fabric in the midst of some dream of hunting juicy insects.

Too late, Sherlock noticed the door was still open, and a gust of cool air entered the flat. Shivers wrack the tiny, somewhat pudgy body, and Sherlock's mind barely has the time to process the deductions (_cold air, inadequate cover, no nest to bury himself in, possible illness if temperature difference continues_) before his fingers are pulling the scarf from his neck, wrapping and nudging the fabric around the quivering creature in a makeshift nest, still warm from human body heat.

John stepped into the room, indignation blazing in his eyes at Sherlock's abrupt running off downstairs, but the righteous annoyance dies down, to be replaced with surprise and confusion as he took in the sight of his not-dead-recently-returned flatmate wrapping his scarf around what is, unmistakably, a hedgehog.

"Is that..."

"_He_, John, this is a _male _hedgehog."

Taking a moment to process the new, rather odd information, John wondered for a moment if this was a very strange dream, and if any moment now, something even stranger would happen, such as the cup of freshly-made tea on the table to start calling his name-

_Wait, tea? I didn't make that. Mrs. Hudson isn't up yet. Did Sherlock...? No, the last time I drank anything he gave me it was supposedly drugged. Why would there be tea here? _

But Sherlock, even after all this time, still could read him like a worn, much-loved book. A faint quirk of his friend's mouth, mirth in his eyes as pale fingers made a vague, sweeping gesture towards the warm, welcoming brew, soft whorls of steam drifting the tantalizing scent of lavender and chamomile through the air.

"I didn't _poison _it, you know. Do you really think that I'd come back just to do something that stupid?"

A flicker of shame churned in his gut at this reply, but John didn't know if he should completely trust in the words. Back or not, he'd learned during his days with Sherlock that anything and everything to do with food or drink of any kind prepared or touched by his flatmate isn't able to be considered safe to ingest, considering the chemicals and experiments with volatile substances were always in session. The severed head and various body parts in the fridge at all hours, and the coffee at Baskervilles had only compounded on such a healthy cultivation of paranoia.

A faint flicker of _something _burned in those pale eyes for a moment, something that John realized was remarkably close to hurtful indignation. Before he can do anything, Sherlock let out a long-suffering, drawn-out sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache, and then turned to the hedgehog in the armchair, reaching out and picking up the makeshift nest with the hedgehog curled into a little ball of prickly quills in the center.

"I go to the trouble of making you tea, and you won't drink it. Well, _fine_. If you don't want it, _he _can have it instead."

Sherlock walked to the table and held the scarf, hedgehog and all, in front of the cup of tea, and before John can even warn him not to stand so close (the scarf and the tiny creature within are uncomfortably close to the cup of steaming hot liquid, and he doesn't know if he can treat a hedgehog for burns, as he's a doctor, not a veterinarian), the hedgehog poked his tiny head out of the blue fabric, sniffing the air in quick little twitches, before bright, beady eyes spied the cup, a soft squeal was emitted, and suddenly the quivering little ball of quills was scrambling up and out, leaning over to take a drink.

John swore, running over and reaching out a hand to catch the hedgehog before 221B's newest resident gets scalded. But to his surprise, the hedgehog clambered out of the scarf and into his hand, staring at him with large, curious eyes. A soft chuckle reached his ears, and suddenly the hedgehog was chattering away, chin tickled by pale violinist fingers as Sherlock leaned in and hummed softly, holding out a spoonful of tea from the mug. Before John can even ask him if it's healthy for hedgehogs to drink tea in the first place, the golden liquid was being sucked down a tiny mouth, and Sherlock was talking.

John had already opened his mouth to respond when he realizes that Sherlock wasn't talking to him, but to the hedgehog.

"This one's a good one, hmm, Sam? Very mild, with a bit of rose petals."

The good doctor blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. _Sherlock...just fed a hedgehog tea. A hedgehog named Sam. Am I dreaming?_

"No, you're not dreaming, and no, I didn't drug you. The tea's completely herbal, just some lavender and chamomile flowers steeped in warm water, so he won't get sick." The answer came instantly, though when John turned to look, Sherlock's eyes were still firmly trained on...Sam.

_Sam the hedgehog. Oh God, this...this might take some getting used to. Why does he even have a hedgehog? I've never seen him with a pet before, and he never told me he wanted one, not to mention I'd be afraid of experiments on whatever he bought...but no, he wouldn't experiment on...Sam, he wouldn't. Dead body parts, yes, but this...no, I don't think he would._

Sam the hedgehog, meanwhile, was content with a tummy full of warm herbal tea, and promptly curled up into his habitual ball shape, rolling forwards as Sherlock's fingers move to allow the hedgehog to land in his outstretched hands. The little creature snuffled and squeaked, tiny nose nuzzling a pale thumb as Sherlock gently ran his fingers over the spiny coat in slow, languid strokes, as if touching silk for the first time.

A thousand questions were struggling to make themselves heard, but in the end, the one that won out was simply, "Why...why Sam?"

There was a moment of silence, and then pale eyes looked up to meet his, the expression guarded, as if worried the answer given would be embarrassing to admit. "You know that I delete things that aren't useful to me. But...while I was...away, I remembered one of the things that you wanted to introduce me to was classic film. One night, the hotel room I was staying at was playing a _Lord of the Rings _marathon, and as I wasn't inclined toward sleep at the time. I was feeling...rather sentimental that night, it was already half a year into my "death", and I was still learning to cope with my new existence compared to the old one. The films ended up being a sort of...coping mechanism, I suppose you could say. A way to keep from thinking too much about what happened, if just for the night. The character of Samwise Gamgee...he reminded me of you."

It was quiet then, silence stretching out to encompass the room as the words sunk in. "He...he reminded you of me? Well, I suppose that makes sense..."

In a way, it did. John thought of his previous experiences watching the famous film series, and was struck by the similarities. _Well, if that's the case..._

He felt the corners of his mouth turn upwards, the grin manifesting. "Well," John said decisively, "I guess that makes you Frodo, then, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before his mouth quirked into a slight, but nonetheless genuine grin, eyes lit with warmth. "Yes, I suppose it does."

Settling down side by side on the sofa, John gestured to Sam the hedgehog, still cradled in Sherlock's pale hands, as a thought occurred to him. "Wait...does this mean that I remind you of a hedgehog?"

His only response was a laugh, the warm, familiar baritone resounding throughout the room. "Yes, you do."

John scowled, turning to give his friend an incredulous look. "_Why_? What could _possibly _make you think that I'm like a hedgehog?"

Sherlock takes a moment to answer, a pensive look on his face, as if deep in thought. Gently stroking the top of Sam's head with a thin pointer finger, he spoke up. "You're kind, affectionate, easily get along with others, are loyal almost to a fault, and yet at the same time, you can easily become dangerous to people who threaten you, or people you care for."

John stared at him, both quietly touched by his friend's words, and somewhat confused. "Well, that's all well and good, but how is a hedgehog considered by _you_ to be "dangerous"?"

The look his friend gives him is so grave as to be almost comical. "John, you may not believe it, but Samwise here has helped me out quite a lot while I was gone. He's no ordinary hedgehog. He's _smarter. _That's why he's "dangerous", he gets into all sorts of antics. Besides, he may be considered harmless by you, but those quills of his are a decent defense. No one likes getting nicked by all those sharp points, even if they only go up when he's upset or frightened."

_I thought as such, I know you don't like ordinary things. _

"But...really, I don't get it, how has he helped you? I don't mean to be rude, Sherlock, but I really doubt that this hedgehog would be able to do much for you."

Sam, it appeared, took offense to this, because the quills on his back raised upwards, as if the little mammal was becoming a tiny, living pincushion. Sharp, shrill squeaks burst forth from the tiny body as Sam stared at John with what was unmistakably indignation. John could only stare in abject surprise. Sherlock sighed, before tapping Sam on the nose with the previously stroking pointer finger, the hedgehog silenced immediately.

"No," he said sternly, wagging his finger before the bright eyes in reprimand, "No cursing at John, Sam."

John blinked, staring at the surreal scene before him. In an effort to restore some semblance of semi-normalcy, he cleared his throat and gave his friend a pointed look, silently asking him to continue. Nodding, Sherlock resumed the leisurely petting of the hedgehog in his hands, and Sam let out a little yawn and curled up once more, chirruping softly.

"John...he really did help me. He gave me something to focus on, kept me company, kept me _sane. _I know it sounds ridiculous, but I mean it. I...I got him from a pet store in Austria during my travels. I wouldn't have even gone in if the target hadn't ran in there during the chase to hide, the store was large enough to cater to the local zoo's larger animals' food needs, so he headed inside to find a hiding place while he reloaded his gun. I went in after him, and he fired at me until he emptied his clip. The place got shot up, animal pens and cages got hit, and all the pets on sale went mad from all the shooting. The pen for the hedgehogs only had him left in it, and he escaped. I almost tripped over him, until I heard a squeak by my left foot and saw him...just sitting there, not afraid of the bullets soaring overhead, or the humans trying to kill each other. He just looked at me, so quiet and patient, it was so strange. I was...reminded of you, actually. Staying, even in the face of danger itself, quite remarkable. So I picked him up and put him in my coat pocket for safekeeping. He got his name soon after, when I saw the film marathon at the hotel, and he seems to have made it his life's mission since to look after me in your absence."

Confused, John raised an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation.

Sherlock sighed, transferring Sam to his lap as he ran a hand through his mess of curls, tugging on the springy strands as he tried to formulate a comprehensible answer. "He...when I ate, he started to nudge the takeaway containers towards me, as if telling me to eat more. If I wouldn't sleep for some time, he wouldn't let me hold him or pet him until I took a nap. He would listen to me when I would rant at the issues with the target, the place we were staying at, the sentiment that reared its head as the days grew longer and blended together, he would listen when I needed to run an idea past someone, or just talk to someone instead of to myself. He even bit the target once, made him drop his gun so we could get away. If I started thinking too much about what my life had become, he would distract me by trying to get me to play with him or pet him or feed him. I couldn't even smoke any cigarettes, he peed on the package and soaked all of them, and then he tore up the nicotine patches." The sulk in his friend's tone was undermined by the tremor of affection that ran through the words.

John couldn't help it. He laughed.

"John, _really_? I tell you this and you _laugh _at me? This is not funny, it's serious! It was like having a tiny, pocket-sized you, only with quills and an unreasonable lack of jumpers."

John could only laugh harder. Sherlock stared at him, seeming to be genuinely confused as to why it was so funny.

"Sorry...", he managed to say, when the laughter finally stopped, "it's just...really, you got a _hedgehog _to take care of you. A _hedgehog_."

Sam let out a little snuffling noise, as if in agreement, as the beady eyes opened again, The hedgehog turned round in a circling movement on Sherlock's lap, squeaking and chirping.

The two men took a moment to watch their tiny third companion, John silently going over the information Sherlock had given him. Last night, during the very early hours between night and day, Sherlock had mumbled and groaned, caught up in the memories of the lost years, and John had managed to piece together enough to understand that Moriarty's criminal network had been hacked away at by the man beside him. In the dark and the quiet, Sherlock had gone into some sort of fit of nightmares, shuddering and hissing names, half-audible mutters that had left John reeling with the blow of what he'd learned, even from the fragmented bits given up in the throes of un unmerciful slumber.

_Snipers. Three bullets. Moriarty targeted Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson...and me. You jumped to keep us alive, even when you knew it'd kill us inside to do it. Years...years of running, of hiding, false names and assassinations of every thug and criminal syndicate member you could find connected to Moriarty. Years and years alone...well, except for the hedgehog. Samwise the Brave, indeed. _

He looked up, hysterical laughter bubbling up, threatening to burst forth. _All this time...and you just had the memories of those back home, and him. This tiny, prickly, tea-drinking creature is part of the reason why you're here now. _

John Watson never thought he would one day be grateful to a hedgehog. The very idea was bizarre.

He looked at Sherlock, grinning like a child. "Well, I expect the Yard will be making jokes at your expense for this. You do realize they'll never let you live this down, right?"

Sherlock let out a groan of dismay, eyes narrowed in distaste. "Ugh, I don't want them to know. Don't you dare tell them, John, I'm not known for being good with small, cuddly creatures."

Nonetheless, the grin on the good doctor's face remained. "Well, if anything, this will help establish you as a halfway-decent person in the eyes of the public again. _Nobody_ can resist something this adorable."

Sherlock scowled at him, letting out a huff of indignation, before throwing himself bodily onto his end of the couch with a groan. Thankfully, Sam appeared to be used to such sudden movements, scurrying quickly off Sherlock's knee in time and squeaking a bit as he sought refuge on John's lap. Resisting the urge to squirm from the feeling of the tiny, sharp toes digging into his trousers, John sat still while Sam climbed up his trouser leg, then settled on his chest, nuzzling into the fabric of the jumper. Feeling the corners of his mouth twitch upwards at the sight of the tiny ball of prickly quills nestled into the oatmeal-coloured fabric, he tentatively reached out a hand and lightly stroked the top of the quills with his hand. Sam cooed at him.

_Hmm, not sharp after all, just kind of prickly and pointy. _

Sherlock stared at his two companions from the other side of the couch, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards despite himself as he drank in the sight of the tiny mammal nuzzling his friend's jumper front like it was the best creation since tea.

Later that night, while Sherlock set up an official "living area" for their newest flatmate, John took out his laptop and began typing a blog.

_By the time morning comes, the whole Yard's going to know about this. _

**THE CASE OF THE NANNY HEDGEHODGE **

**It started yesterday night, when I came home to find a dead man in my bedroom with no shoes on...**


End file.
